


Butterfly

by MizDirected



Category: Original Work
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Slave, Fluff and Angst, Hope vs. Despair, Non-Sexual Slavery, Other, Slavery, young adult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8387317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizDirected/pseuds/MizDirected
Summary: The butterfly danced in the window, sunlight painting it in slanted shadows as legs like unraveled threads ticked and skittered against the glass.  Bright eyes watched, the child's hand half-raised, fingers darting toward the dancer then curling back.





	

The butterfly danced in the window, sunlight painting it in slanted shadows as legs like unraveled threads ticked and skittered against the glass.  Bright eyes watched, the child's hand half-raised, fingers darting toward the dancer then curling back. 

 

_ Clumsy child!  Pick up every single piece.  You miss even one, I’ll cane those hands ‘til you have an excuse to drop everything you pick up. _

 

No.  She dare not touch.  Magic flitted through the heavy sunlight, magic that stirred the skin along her back, daring it to grow wings.  Magic, just like Mother Megan’s stories of Earth.  Magic that clumsy fingers might all too easily break.  So she watched, fingertips perching along the edge of the sill as she strained on tiptoes to reach the dancer’s height.  Despite never having seen a butterfly in person before, she thought perhaps she’d seen them in dreams: clouds of colourful wings sweeping over endless fields of grass and flowers. 

 

The skin and bone between her shoulder blades itched, pulling a hopeful glimpse behind her.  Maybe, if she could form the perfect wish, the tickle might grow into wings, and she could join the dance.  The perfect wish ….  

 

_ Wishing is for fools and for the free.  You do them no service telling them fancy tales and filling their heads with dreams, Megan.  Obedience will spare them the whip, wishes will not. _

 

If only she knew how to wish, that tickle might turn to wings.  Bright eyes looked back to the dancer, flitting against the glass.  Mother Grettel said wishes were for the free.  Did butterflies know how to wish? 

 

“Lenka!”  The voice shattered the peace, the brittle crack of morning ice on the well.

 

The child jumped, a soft “Oh” startled from between her lips before her teeth could catch it.

 

“You’re supposed to be sweeping, not daydreaming.” Mother Grettel’s voice left stripes as surely as her cane, even from across the room.  The uneven thump-clack of the old mother’s steps crossed the floorboards, each plank groaning with a different voice beneath her weight. 

 

The hairs along the child’s back lifted, the tickly hope of wings twisting into a measure of how close Grettel stood when the floorboards stopped singing their song.  Air whispered down Lenka’s throat, tiptoeing past her heart, its quick thump-thump dangling from the back of her tongue.  

 

“Kill that insect and get back to your chores.”  A crack worthy of a whip echoed through the room, the cane leaving a dent as deep as Lenka’s thumb in the window sill.  The musty scent of dust and paint flecks bit deeper than the welt in the old wood, reminding her of the consequences of disobedience.  Her back ached, invisible fingers painting lines of shadowed purples across her skin.

 

Black eyes wide, heart dropping into her chest to slam against the backside of her ribs, Lenka spun to face the old mother.  “Kill it?”  That earned the cane, a bleat greeting the new welt along the line of her hip.

 

“You heard me.”  Stooped and heavy on her cane, Grettel hobbled one step closer; thunder after the lightning, waiting for the child to let down her guard before it roared.  

 

Halting, legs rooted into the old house’s wood—the same wood that grew up the old mother’s spine—Lenka turned back to the dusty, silver-winged dancer.  It still bounced off the glass, but it no longer appeared to dance, its wings frantic.  It belonged outside, sailing along the breeze, wings carrying it into the vast blue above.  

 

“It doesn’t have to die,” she said, startling herself with the words.  She never argued; arguing earned the cane.  Obedience formed the walls and safe passages of her days.  Obedience meant food.  It meant light and air that didn’t stink of rot.  It meant falling asleep on a mattress, wrapped in a warm blanket between the bodies of the other children rather than the hungry, dank solitude of the cellar.  Obedience meant life, and yet … she argued.  Trembling fingers returned to the window sill, her words sounding far away, as if someone else said them.  “I can set it free.”  

 

“It’ll be a week in the cellar if you don’t do as you’re told.”  The cane’s foot stabbed at the floor in warning.

 

Lenka’s mind insisted that she just do as Grettel said.  She killed insects all the time.  For the price of that insignificant life, she could save herself a week of misery.  The dancer stilled, the little threads on its furry head twitching.  Lenka held her breath, staring at the insect, certain in that moment that it stared back.  

 

“Set me free,” it said, speaking the language of soulful stares and twitching head threads.  “I can fly for us both.  I can show you magic through my eyes.”

 

Heart dropping, the child glanced at Grettel, waiting for the old woman’s patience to reach the bottom.  Her hand lifted, palm flat, poised to do as she’d been told.  She didn’t want the butterfly to show her freedom and magic and perfect wishes; she wanted to sail that wind on wings of her own.  Why should she suffer the cellar so that such a tiny dancer experienced everything she might never know?

 

The foot of Grettel’s cane stabbed the floor again, the shriveled well of the old woman’s kindness one drop from running dry.  One more breath and the decision wouldn’t matter.  One more breath and even crushing the dancer’s frail little body wouldn’t stop Grettel from painting Lenka’s back purple and black.

 

Lenka drew her hand back, sinuous muscles coiling to act.  What could it hurt to slap her hand against the glass, quick and sharp?  The dancer stared at her, those darting head threads speaking clearly about perfect wishes and hope.

 

Hand darting forward, Lenka unhooked the latch and threw the window open before Grettel could sputter in protest.  The dancer skittered along the glass, able to scent its salvation, but unable to find it.  Gentle hands scooped it up, tossing it out into the breeze … the wind sweet with ripe leaves and shorn summer grass.  The butterfly faltered, falling toward the grass before it formed its perfect wish and its wings caught the wind.  

 

Even as the cane fell, Lenka drew the window closed, the pad of her thumb slipping the latch into place.  Palms pressed to the glass, the child danced to the tune of the old woman’s anger, her gaze following the butterfly across the wide green lawn and up into the blue.  In time, she’d learn how to wish, imbuing the magic with enough colour and life to grow wings.  On that day, she’d follow the butterfly into the blue.  On that day, she’d be free.

 

“Is it worth it?” Grettel demanded, puffing hard between the solid, wooden cracks of cane against skin and bone.  “All of this for a filthy old carpet moth.”

  
  
  



End file.
